Thinking about things, perhaps if he raced at full pelt to Carron Place, a highly favoured venue, he could forget about the other places, Ma Aitken’s and so on. Then he could nip home and catch the last fifty minutes of Sharon’s exposure, or was it Bridget tonight? It was a tempting thought, particularly as the wind-chill factor must be in minus figures and his knee was playing up. Then, to his fury, he heard the ‘Greensleeves’ ringtone emerging from his pocket.
Snatching the phone from his anorak impatiently, recognising the number and rueing his own efficiency in remembering the damn thing, he demanded, bad-temperedly, ‘What d’ you want, Adam?’
‘Whereabouts are you at the moment?’ What a nerve! To be checked up on by a runty little IT creep. A man who would not have been allowed within spitting distance of his boardroom.
‘Never you mind, Adam. I’m out doing the patrol, aren’t I? Is there anything else you want? It’s brass monkeys out here, so please don’t waste my time with stupid questions.’
‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ the voice sounded gratifyingly apologetic, respectful even, ‘it’s just that I’ve had a report. Todd’s been out in the Merc and he’s pretty sure that one of them set up stall at General George’s. Are you anywhere near there now?’
Red in the face and about to explode and release frothing expletives, Bill Keane suddenly had a bright idea, one designed to maximise his brownie points within the group and allow him to ogle Sharon, Bridget or whoever, too. He looked at his watch. Half an hour to go before the disrobing at eight or thereabouts.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘unfortunately, I’m on Fox Place at the mo – right at the far end away from Ma’s – but I’ll turn around right away. Don’t worry, I’ll see the baggage off PDQ. Over and out, Adam.’
So saying, he dropped the mobile back into his anorak pocket and continued, whistling merrily now, along Seafield Place, Ma Aitken’s pub already in sight. No need any longer to check out the West End. The group believed it had been done, and quite enough of their quarry located for the evening. Glamour Night might just be back on the menu.
As he bowled briskly round the warehouse corner, his mind on shutter speeds and apertures, he noticed two figures lurking together in the shadows, the man’s bulky form almost obscuring the woman’s markedly slighter one. Maybe he could tiptoe up to them, give the dirty bugger the fright of his life by tapping him on the shoulder and barking, ‘OK son… you’re under arrest!’ or some other such nonsense. Mind you, the chap was built like a tank, and, on closer inspection, perhaps they had not yet begun to fornicate. Also, the fact that he was not a well man should not be forgotten. In the circumstances, discretion might be the better part of valour. The desired result could be achieved simply by, say, the loud clapping of hands or some other sudden noise.
While he was standing still, contemplating the best strategy, a shrill scream pierced the silence, terrifying him and making his heart pound in his chest. But when he realised where the sound was coming from, he found himself instinctively running towards its source. The small woman. At the sound of his footsteps clattering on the tarmac, the stranger whirled round to face him and ran straight at him, colliding deliberately and shouldering him to the ground. Stamping on his hand for good measure, he hared off in the direction of Leith.
From his new vantage-point on the tarmac Bill Keane looked up at the stars, breathless, shocked by the violence he had felt, still bewildered by the speed of events. Groaning slightly, he rolled onto his side, trying to rise. But as he put his weight on his right knee it gave way below him and he thudded down again, cracking his elbow against his ribs and yelping in pain like a startled puppy.
His high-pitched cry penetrated the woman’s numb brain, rousing her from her stupor. With the return of full consciousness came an overpowering sense of dread. She had opened her eyes and seen moonlight reflected on the blade of the punter’s knife, seconds before its point had been pressed hard into her ribcage. She looked round the desolate scene, her eyes finally resting on the injured man, still collapsed and moaning gently to himself.
Immediately she stepped towards him. Dropping onto her knees beside him, she put an arm under each of his armpits and began to try to haul him up. He did not protest and she continued pulling until he lay with his back propped up against her, both of them gasping with the effort, neither sure what to do next. As they waited together for her to gain a second wind, hailstones appeared from nowhere, striking their faces and bouncing off the ground. Nature herself seemed unmoved by them, showed no pity at their plight.
‘Best get help, dear,’ Bill Keane said. ‘I don’t think we’ll manage…’
‘Aha. Nae dosh in ma phone, but I’ll gae tae Ma Aitken’s, eh? I’ll get us an ambulance frae there. You be a’right?’
‘Fine… maybe sense to get the police, too?’
‘Aye.’
She eased herself away from him, and then lowered his head gently back onto the ground. Shivering, she removed her thin jacket, intending to make a pillow for him from it, but ashamed of its squalid state she turned it inside-out before rolling it up, raising the old man’s head and carefully placing it underneath.
At half past eight the next morning, Alice pushed open the door of the Ladies and was momentarily disconcerted to find herself confronted by her old adversary, the cleaner, Mrs McClaren. The woman was polishing the mirror in large circular strokes, crooning ‘Little Bubbles’ tunelessly to her own reflection as she did so. Never mind, Alice thought, nothing to fear nowadays. She was no longer a man-free zone, an easy target.
‘Still got yer boyfriend, eh, dear?’
Alice nodded. Speech might result in her accidentally entering the joust again, and she was unwilling to risk that, even if she did now have some armour.
‘Ah says, still got yer boyfriend, eh?’ the cleaner repeated at increased volume, as if the policewoman might be deaf.
‘Yes, thanks.’ Safer to scotch that rumour, too.
‘How long hae ye managed tae keep this wan then?’ The cheek of it.
‘I’m not sure exactly. We’ve been together about nine months, something like that.’
‘Ye’ll need tae get a move on, mind, hen.’
‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’
‘Kiddies. Or ye’ll miss the bus, man or nae man,’ she laughed croakily, ‘otherwise ye’ll need one of thae… eh… donor kebabs.’
Determined to avoid any further chat, Alice nodded again, squeezing past the woman and her trolley contraption to get to the nearest cubicle.
‘An’ ah had five by the time ah wis thirty!’ Complacent cow.
‘If ye lose yer man, right, dinnae touch that Oakley boy, mind, eh?’
Alice’s curiosity was momentarily aroused and she waited, the door still ajar.
‘Why not?’
‘Cause he’s crackers, ken. Want to watch yersel’ wi’ him, even if yer desperate. I’d no’ trust him further than I could throw him. Telt me I’d lost ma job, a new company hud got the contract. I nearly got the sack fer no’ turning up the next day, thanks to him. Laughed hisself silly when I gave him a piece o’ my mind, but he’ll no’ dae that again.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I spat on his hob-nobs, an’ I’ll tell him once he’s scoffed the lot.’
A cautionary tale, Alice decided, finally finding sanctuary in the cubicle. Mrs McClaren should not be crossed.